


Weasel Knows Best

by TreacleTeacups



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man - Fandom
Genre: 2008 Reference (I'm Sorry), And Wade in an apron, Because Peter's having a quarter-life-crisis, Identity Issues, Inconsistent Tenses and Run-on Sentences, M/M, Oblivious Pining, Peter is twenty two, Peter's fingers are smarter than he is, Semi-Subtle Archer References, Semi-serious Wade, Slightly Angsty Peter, Starring Very Drunk Peter, Unwilling Tontine Participants, Very Unsubtle Harry Potter References, Who Knows How Old Wade Is?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 14:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15865407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleTeacups/pseuds/TreacleTeacups
Summary: In which Weasel calls in a gold card because Peter Parker is too much of a handful even for him and he knows the perfect sucker for the job. Or, the one in which Weasel is sick of the tension and finds a solution.





	Weasel Knows Best

**Author's Note:**

> I have no right to be writing this ship because all the source material I’ve seen is the movies and this is based 100% in movieverse and Tumblr and Wikipedia research and I’m not really sure when I got into this ship but oh my god, I can’t stop. Please, please don't take any of this seriously because it's really not.  
> And let’s all just make the assumption that Sister Margaret’s is in New York because that’s all very central to the plotline, k thx bai!
> 
> Also, quick edit 21/09/18 because someone noted that I was blending dead pools and tontines, which are kind of the opposite of each other, and I had forgotten to add a paragraph or two to explain that - so I've added it now :)

Peter’s been Spider-Man for a really long time. Really long time meaning, precisely, seven years. _Seven. Years._ It may not seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things. But Peter started when he was fifteen years old. He’s twenty-two now and finally getting around to seriously applying for university and dammit if he can’t get a scholarship at this age, especially with nothing to show for the four year gap. He’d applied for twenty grants when he graduated high school at eighteen and won about eleven of those applications. But, before he knew it, time passed and lives were saved and lives were _lost_ and suddenly he found himself standing on a building in the messy skyline of New York City, four years later, not sure who or _what_ he was.

Spider-Man or Peter?

Spider-Man… or Peter?

Spider-Man _._

_Or Peter?_

Why did it always have to be a choice? And why did Spider-Man always have to be the first option?

Peter scowled at the light pollution and noise and… The Everything. New York City could never be saved. Salvation was always a child’s dream.

The entire city gyrated rhythmically in an oscillating gear of crime, a full rotation after each patrol. Peter could stop it, sure, but only for a brief moment in time. Crime never ended, not when people need food or need to fuck or need to sleep or need bliss or need anything. _Need,_ a whisper in his mind stressed. People will always need, and need was a powerful motivator for good and bad. For human instinct.

_What does Peter need?_ He thought to himself for the first time in a long time. Not, _what do the Avengers need_? Or _what do the X-men need?_ Or _what does my boss need_? Or, even, _what should I do?_

No should or need or must or have to.

_What does Peter need_? A whisper pressed against his mind as he stared blankly into the surprisingly bright skyline (for midnight, at least).

_What does Peter Parker_ need?

* * *

Before Peter became Spider-Man, he used to wear his own face like an embarrassment. He used to stutter, used to curl in on himself, used to hide, take the punches as they rolled. But once the timid boy became Spider-Man, he forgot about Peter Parker. He hid himself behind Stark-made bulletproof spandex and KAREN and everything else that frightened little ol’ Peter Parker. Peter Parker became a second thought, an image and ideal that he needed to keep in the dark to protect MJ and Gwen and Aunt May, his special people. An identity to protect. The idea solidified in his mind as Uncle Ben’s blood had dried on his fingertips and never shook.

Then MJ left New York for bigger and better, Gwen died in his own arms, and Aunt May slowly withered away from that disease no one could fix, not even the twelve (plus) digit bank account of Tony Stark.

But Peter kept hiding in the dark, that special identity no one could know, no one was _allowed_ to know, other than Mr. Stark himself. And, for a man that told the entire world that he was Iron Man, Stark could surprisingly keep a secret.

Until, one day, Peter realised that he wasn’t a secret anymore. No one, literally _no one_ , in the United States knew or cared for Peter Parker. MJ, the last living of his special ones, was currently working abroad for France’s version of the Mutant Secret Service (and who even knew how she got that gig?) and Peter was firmly into his twenties and suddenly finding his secret identity something that couldn’t be used against him or needed to be hidden.

Peter Parker’s need dissipated and, with that, himself. Suddenly, for the first time, Spider-Man felt like the secret identity.

* * *

Sister Margaret’s School For Wayward Girls, formerly known as The Hellhouse (Peter couldn’t be sure if that was the Catholic school’s nickname or a mercenary joke), became something of a haunt for Peter Parker.

Not Spider-Man.

For Peter. Fucking. Parker. At least, he referred to himself as that in his head.

_Oh, fuck. How drunk am I?_ Peter thought to himself, still quiet and polite and nodding at the bartender, Weasel, as his empty glass was topped.

“That’s a mighty fine bar tab,” Weasel drawled in a distinctively unpleasant tone, but Peter knew it was more Weasel’s unfortunate curse of sounding sarcastic twenty-four-seven than actual irritation. Peter raised the tumbler filled with amber liquor in salute to Weasel’s deadpan expression before knocking the glass back.

“Put it on my tab?” Peter offered hoarsely, a sloping grin aimed at the unimpressed bartender.

“Like you can pay,” Weasel muttered, shining a glass with a dirty rag.

“Sure, Aberforth,” Peter chuckled to himself, voice muted by the sounds of a barfight exploding behind him.

Weasel shot Peter a filthy look and the younger man smiled sheepishly. He hadn’t intended the man to hear his comment.

“Fuckin’ nerd. I’d smack you for that, but Gandalf’s ass is gettin’ whooped and I have a pool to run,” Weasel snarked, curling around the bar as the bar’s inhabitants cheered to the sound of a stool breaking over someone’s head.

“Brand new fuckin’ stool, why the fuck do I even _bother_ ,” Peter heard Weasel grizzle as he disappeared from sight.

Peter huffed a laugh before growing solemn and looking up at the chalk board declaring the bets of the dead pool, lips pursing at the words.

_The dead pool_.

A chorus of groans rang through the dark bar and from Peter’s view through the shitty, uncleaned mirror lining the shelves of the bar, people began to disburse from the scene of the fight.

A while back, Weasel decided that betting on people dying was getting troublesome, mostly because those people were dying in his bar and the blood stains were a bitch to get out (and rumour had it that Weasel’s ‘champions’ were all doing pretty well, meaning the bartender had lost a _lot_ of dough). So the bartender changed the dead pool to a tontine, offering the mercenaries to pool their money and whoever lived the longest would win the sum (plus the years of compound interest). This did not stop the mercenaries from trying to kill each other in Weasel’s bar, to the man’s constant despair.

“Aren’t tontine’s, like, super illegal?” Peter asked sluggishly as Weasel curved around the bar, making a round of bottom-shelf drinks for the disappointed mercenaries.

And it was weird, to Peter, how everyone seemed to obey the social cues of Sister Margaret’s. When these monsters laid waste out on the street, holy fire couldn’t keep them in line. But within sight of Weasel’s passive aggressive stare, these mercenaries play cool and don’t step a toe out of line. A man pushes your buttons over an illegal pass in snooker? Beat him within an inch of his life with his own cue. A man tries to force a lady after she’s said no? She carves a pound of his flesh with a rusty knife (literally, Peter’s seen it).

But one _toe_ out of line. One punch beyond what’s _fair_ , and suddenly everyone’s quiet and Weasel is giving that _nasty-ass glare_ and, the next moment, their name is being erased from the Dead Pool chalkboard and everyone’s cheering and sharing a bottle of cheap liquor as their own name gets a promotion.

“As if you aren’t in the process of whooping everyone else’s ass,” Weasel’s smirking, wiping a small hand mirror against his dirty flannel shirt and tucking it into a back pocket.

And that brings Peter back to his own predicament. Fuck, he’d never meant to end up on that constantly rotating board of whack motherfuckers (again, to Peter’s disgust, occasionally _literally_ ). He had taken up a few golden cards on jobs that couldn’t pay ‘cause, fuck it, Peter’s got nothing else to do (sarcasm, you beautiful thing) and sometimes it is _nice_ to be a part of something. Peter’s never gotten involved in the Mafia or Camorra (and, for both being Italian, they _do not_ like being compared), or the weird hitman shit, or even the odd super job that comes up.

And, for that, Peter is feared.

Peter cannot, for the _life of him_ , figure out why. Other than the occasional whisper that the last sucker who picked up those worthless golden tickets ended up _fuckin’ undead._ And not in the _good way_ , which means nothing useful to Peter.

No one says his name but Peter knows there’s something weird going on again and he wants absolutely. One hundred percent. _No. Part. Of. It._

Of course, Weasel doesn’t listen. And puts Peter's name on the board anyway and claims himself as the beneficiary. Because Weasel's a fucking asshole like that.

Weirdly enough, again, Peter’s winning. In seventy years, Peter thinks he might win Weasel a billion dollars. It might not be worth the board it’s written on in seventy year’s time, when he’s ninety-two, but it’s a nice thought.

“Congratulations, P, I’m no closer to the pot o’ gold than when you got here,” Weasel bitches, pouring Peter another glass of that magically never-ending bottle of cheap jack.

“Could sell that for millions,” Peter mumbles, thinking of a patented never-ending whiskey bottle. Sirius Black, eat your heart out.

“Oh yeah, okay, you’ve hit the bottom, pink cheeks,” Weasel’s saying, words meshing together and Peter can barely lift his head to grin at the snarky bastard.

“You’re. Like, the _best_ ,” Peter hears himself say and he would curl up in embarrassment if he didn’t mean it. Or, if the eighty proof booze didn’t mean it.

“Yep, okay, definitely, you’re complimenting me now which is clearly your cut off point,” Weasel’s saying from what looks like a sea of bar across from Peter.

“Absinthe for the road?” Peter goads in what he hopes is a challenging tone.

“If I gave you a single ounce more booze I think you would literally die, which _no_ I’m not doing, you assholes,” Weasel’s snarking at the collective grumbles around Peter and. Well, fuck. Peter’s a little touched. For some reason, hearing the sounds of groaning around you at the bartender’s decision to not kill you with alcohol and not increase his patron’s chances of winning a shit-ton of potluck-ed money actually means something to Peter.

_Oh, fuck. You’re actually reaaalllyyy drunk, Parker,_ Peter’s thinking to himself. _Beeeeddtiimmme_ , he sings in his head. And, wow. Like, really. A mattress sounds _really_ good right about now.

“Fuck, man. You’re actually messed up, proper this time. How much did you eat today?” Weasel’s voice is asking, but Peter can’t pinpoint from where, exactly.

“Haven’t eaten since… Wednesday. Yesterday,” Peter’s saying back, abruptly pleased at the feel of his own hands. Why are they so soft?

“Wednesday was two days ago, asshole. This be Friday morning, motherfucker,” Weasel’s still responding from… Somewhere. Peter’s not paying attention.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m calling in a gold card,” Weasel says and Peter’s blinking in surprise, trying hard to focus on the bartender’s frame. It comes into vision for a moment ( _or hours, who knows what time it is,_ Peter thinks) and Peter watches the man pull out a cell phone from a hidden pocket.

“Weasel.” Peter states, voice suddenly clear even to his own wobbly ears.

Weasel ignores Peter.

“Weasel,” Peter states again, firmly.

Weasel continues to ignore Peter.

“Weaaasseee _eeeelllllllll_ ” Peter whines in desperation.

“What?” Weasel asks bitterly, phone pressed against his face.

“Why the fuck do you have a flip phone?” Peter questions in his _Seriously You Have To Answer Me Because I’m Spider-Man_ voice, brows pulled together. “This is two-thousand and… Eight?” He finishes unsurely.

“Is there someone quoting The Black Eyed Peas?” A voice can be heard through Peter’s super hearing emitting from the phone.

“ _Eighteen_ ,” Weasel’s correcting irritably, which really isn’t Weasel’s fault because his whole face and mouth come off as irritated basically all the time.

Peter hears laughter emitting again from the phone and he realises that he _just said that out loud._

“Sorry, Weas,” Peter mumbles before exploding into barely contained giggles.

“Wowzers, bite me Parker,” Weasel’s saying sharply and Peter is suddenly doubling over in laughter and falling off the rickety barstool (and ew, sticking to the bar floor) at the sudden image of a spider gently biting a tiny weasel because _the weasel asked for it._

_Consensual weasel biting,_ Peter thinks, considering for a very brief moment that he might be having a Serious Psychological Breakdown, before dismissing all thoughts and giggling helplessly.

When Peter recovers which, let’s all be honest, takes a Very Long Time, Weasel’s off the phone and shoving a glass of water in Peter’s General Direction.

“Oh, my, god,” Peter’s wheezing, still stuck trying to talk between breathing inhales after laughter. “I’m so sorry Weasel, I really didn’t mean to, seriously. _Sirius-ly_.”

Time must have passed that Peter wasn’t aware of because then there was red leather pressed against his face ( _red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather_ ) and a deep, gravelly voice saying, “This one?”

“Ohmygod, Wade, I swear to god, _take him away_ ,” Weasel is saying, but Peter can hear the very light, almost transparent (read: non-existent), film of humour in his voice. “I can’t even, Wade. I. Can’t. _Even._ ”

“Yellow leather,” Peter manages before dissolving into another round of giggles that leave him feeling like an evil monster is tickling little Peter Parker to death.

“Calling a gold card is _serious business_ , Weasel,” that deep, gravelly voice is saying and Peter (in the words of Weasel). Can’t. Even.

_Sirius-ly._

Peter dissolves into more giggles that feel more desperately like please-stop-tickling-me-this-really-is- _not-_ funny-anymore than when he first started.

Peter suddenly stops giggling. The sensation of being pressed against leather becomes real, grounding, and Peter feels his heart slow to a normal rate. Since when has he been standing and pressed against a leather chest, the sound of a heartbeat pressed against his left ear?

“Okay, this is obviously the sobbing part, because sobbing always comes after the hysterical laughter,” Weasel is saying (again, from _where?!_ Peter’s mind is saying), “And this is a hard, _hard_ pass from me. So, take him anywhere, Wade. I’ll owe you, like, six grenade launchers. Literally, _anywhere else_ , Wade.”

There’s some weird grumbling and talking and whatever, but Peter is suddenly focused on the rumble and purr of the chest under his left ear. There’s a whole thing going on under this chest, which, by the way, feels like a boulder. Peter doesn’t understand what is being said, but he understands that whoever is pressing his face against this rock also owns said rock.

Peter tries to pull away but his arms seem to have a mind of his own, hands clasping firmly around a column of neck and keeping him anchored even as Peter pulls back in a swaying motion.

“I think we’ve met,” Peter is saying, even if his ears sound like they’re hearing noise under water.

“Sure, kid,” the rumbling rock is saying, dismissing Peter as his head turns to the side to continue arguing with Weasel.

Peter cocks his head, contemplating _. Geez, this guy sure looks familiar_ , Peter’s brain is saying in a falsely chipper tone, as if knowing exactly what was happening and what was about to occur but Peter doesn’t think that he knows any Wades.

Peter knows his mind knows something that Drunk Peter isn’t listening to so he tries to focus for a brief moment. Peter concentrates _very hard_ on the masked face before him, one eye closed to stop the double vision as he bites his tongue, and the red and black blur focuses into red spandex and black leather panda patches on a masked face.

Deadpool.

Peter momentarily tries to push away, feeling a creep of red heat flush up his neck, but his arms aren’t cooperating and are doing their very own impression of an octopus holding onto prey. Deadpool doesn’t even look down at Peter as he attempts to untangle his uncooperative arms, still speaking to Weasel in words that he can’t make out over the rush of noise in his own ears. Peter flushes even darker as he realises that his fingertips are _sticking_ to the back of Deadpool’s neck, the microscopic hooks latched _hard_. Peter shakes his hands, disgruntled, and internally berating himself.

_Let go, you goddamn child_ , Peter’s saying to himself firmly. _Seriously, release the mercenary!_ Peter’s fingers don’t listen. He hasn’t lost control of his own powers in years and to be doing it in front of Deadpool somehow makes it all the worse.

Then Deadpool is looking down at a flushed, scowling Peter as the smaller man is yanking the back of the man’s tight leather suit around (and it’s not like there’s much room to move in the large man’s damn suit) and he’s cocking a leather covered head at Peter in confusion.

“Sticky fingers,” Peter’s excusing himself, mortified, as he stills his movements.

There’s a strange rumbling between Peter and Deadpool and Peter realises with numb surprise that Deadpool is _laughing. At him._ Oh sweet mother Mary of God Peter realises he will never. Ever _ever_. Live this down.

“Weasel reckons you need food and that’s a mission I can get behind,” Deadpool is then saying, turning with Peter still latched around his neck, the tips of his feet dragging along the wooden floorboards. Peter’s mind is blown that Weasel knows Deadpool, knows him well enough to make him come pickup a drunk kid at his bar, which seems so ridiculously implausible that he almost laughs.

“Do you mind, munchkin?” Deadpool is muttering in that deep voice. “Normally I wouldn’t mind a pretty lass such as yourself climbing all over me like a Christmas tree, but you are much more than three sheets to the wind and this is starting to feel like a dub-con moment.”

Peter doesn’t know what that means but he can tell from Deadpool’s tone that it’s suggestive and the embarrassment alone from the situation sucks the tiny fibrous hooks on his fingertips in and then Peter is falling. Only to be stopped by large, _large_ hands around his waist.

“Normally my MO is meet pretty boy, get dinner, get drunk, then fondle, but we seem to be doing this backwards so after dinner we’ll introduce ourselves. But dinner first,” Deadpool’s chuckling. Peter can almost feel the steam leaking out of his ears from his scorching face but he manages to untangle himself from the mercenary’s arms and then Peter’s being pushed out of the bar.

Peter looks back at Weasel desperately, the bartender still watching them with a crooked smirk, and mouths _help me._ Weasel flips Peter the bird before saluting loosely and Peter realises that he may never be able to show his face in Sister Margaret’s again, so he returns the one-finger salute and allows himself to be pushed into the cool outside air.

* * *

There’s a few moments missing from Peter’s memory and he comes to when he’s holding a softshell taco in his hand and a glass of water in the other, dumbly staring at six more tacos in a basket which are clearly meant for Peter.

“Tacos?” Peter is saying.

“Yep, there’s nothing like a bit of greasy cheese and pico de gallo to really jumpstart the metabolism,” Deadpool’s saying around a massive mouthful of food. “’Sides, you were all for it a minute ago.”

Peter doesn’t doubt that. He’s literally up for any kind of food, any time of the day. His normal post-bar tradition is to eat a kebab, drink a Gatorade, and pass out in his bed. But Mexican sounds pleasantly nice and light and Peter’s realising that he doesn’t have any money.

“I’m broke,” Peter says to the large man across the booth from him.

“I’m not,” Deadpool’s snorting, still shovelling food into his mouth. “So eat, princess, then we’re passing out ‘cause it’s like four in the morning.” And Peter stares for a minute because he’s never seen Deadpool’s mask rolled up to his nose like that and there’s a firm jaw exposed with all kind of mottled skin, the multicoloured glow of fairy lights casting greens and pinks across Deadpool’s face.

“Don’t look unless you wanna hurl all over your dinner,” Deadpool grumbles, a gloved hand coming up to cover his mouth.

“Doesn’t bother me,” Peter responds in surprise. Because Deadpool’s face really doesn’t disgust him. It’s more… Fascinating. Like looking at a painting or a Where’s Waldo page. Deadpool’s face is interesting and Peter could look at it for hours, learning the contours and dips – if the mercenary would let him.

“I’m more worried about the blood money paying for this food,” Peter’s continuing before he can clasp a surprised hand over his mouth. So far, Deadpool’s gently wrestled Peter up from the bar, picked up his bar tab, is in the process of buying him dinner, and was most likely going to pay for a cab home (at least, before Peter decided to open his fat mouth). _Way to go, Parker_. “Sorry, that was a shitty thing to say,” Peter mumbling and inhaling the dripping tacos before he can put his foot even further into his mouth.

Deadpool has stopped eating and is staring at him silently. “Yeah, sure kid,” he says, voice deeper and colder than Peter’s heard it before, even during those handful of times when Deadpool teamed up with Spider-Man over the last couple of years. Even more so than that time Deadpool took a bullet to the face for Spider-Man and then he wouldn’t let the mercenary kill the bank robber who fired the shot.

This 4am version of Deadpool is quiet in ways that Deadpool never is. He’s a thin veneer of calm, a dangerous river of tension and complete situational control just under his skin. Peter wonders if this has to do with the gold card that Weasel called and if Deadpool’s always like this on a job.

“Shit, sorry,” Peter then says, startling. He’s not formally introduced himself, though he’s sure Weasel told the mercenary his name, but it’s still unbearably rude. Aunt May would have literally smacked Peter up the head had she seen his manners in the last few hours. Peter wipes his hands on a rough paper napkin and is holding his hand out into Deadpool’s personal space before he can think twice about it.

“My name’s Peter. Peter Parker,” Peter says, feeling suddenly aware and sober in the dim light of the twenty-four hour Mexican joint.

Deadpool is then chuckling, a scarred tongue licking taco juice off his lips and the odd tension lining his broad shoulders evaporates, or at least is pushed away for a brief moment.

“Deadpool’s the name, murder’s the game,” Deadpool sings in a light tune, clasping Peter’s hand with his gloved one and shaking enthusiastically. Peter would feel repulsed by that jingle except he’s suddenly filled with relief now that Deadpool is acting more familiar.

“But you can call me Wade,” Deadpool adds slyly, his eye lenses narrowing and, for the first time, Peter sees the man smile. Peter’s “seen” this expression on Deadpool before out on the street, a stretching of fabric around his mouth and narrowing of eyes that Peter _knows_ is a smirk. But to see it first hand, the right corner of Deadpool’s lips raising in a brazenly cheeky grin and teeth glinting in the blinking hues of the fairy lights and it’s like an actual punch to Peter’s gut.

Deadpool – or, rather, Wade – is actually really _hot_.

Peter realises a moment too late that he’s still holding Wade’s hand and blinking at the man dumbly.

“Somethin’ in my teeth?” Wade’s asking, withdrawing his hand from Peter’s loose clasp (and Peter is _so grateful_ that his spider hooks didn’t hold on) and fishing out a small, ice-pick style knife, clearly intending to use the tip to scratch around his gums.

“No,” Peter answers automatically, still a little dazed by the revelation that Deadpool is _gorgeous_ , even with mottled skin and scars for days. “I don’t mean to stare, but you’re really attractive.”

There’s a strange strangling noise filling the air between them and Peter realises it’s coming out of Deadpool’s throat. _Where the fuck is my filter tonight?!_ Peter is screaming at himself internally and, okay, he thought he’d sobered up a bit but clearly not as much as he would have hoped. Booze apparently makes Peter say the dumbest shit known to man and he decides immediately that he’s never touching the sauce again.

Wade has frozen, knife halfway in the air to his mouth, and Peter can’t tell what the older man is thinking.

As it tends to when Peter has really fucked up, his mouth decides it is time to experiment with how many words he can get out in one breath. “Wow, sorry, I don’t mean to come onto you or anything and even though you are cute it’s pretty inappropriate of me to say shit like that especially since you’ve been really cool all night and I’ve just been such a douche and it’s been a really long night and I think I might just leave now, because if I stay I might make a bigger asshole out of myself and while I doubt that’s possible, I seem to be one-upping myself on all my biggest embarrassments tonight, it’s like a gag reel of my life but not funny, more mortifying, and – ”

The ice-pick knife is then suddenly lodged into the fake wooden veneer of the table and Peter freezes at the sound while in the middle of an attempt to slide himself out of the vinyl booth, one leg out in the aisle and one still trapped by the leg of the table. The knife has caught his hoody sleeve, slicing through less than an inch of fabric spare around his wrist and Peter ogles at the speared fabric because every so often he forgets that Deadpool is _really_ good with weapons until he comes along and does something like this.

“Uh,” Peter squeaks before looking up at Deadpool’s blank expression, the man’s mask pulled back down again and secured tightly around his face.

“Mr. Deadpool,” a heavily accented woman’s voice is breaking through the stare down. Peter jerks his head to see a short, plump Hispanic woman in her mid-fifties glaring at the mercenary with fire in her eyes. Her hands are on her hips and, for a moment, she looks so much like Aunt May when she was pissed off that Peter feels his breath catch in his throat. “You promised no more breaking my furniture,” she states, a wooden spoon held against her hip in a white fisted grip.

Peter hears Wade audibly gulp and then there’s cash (so, _so_ much cash) being left on the table and the knife is suddenly out of Peter’s sleeve and he’s being towed out of the restaurant with Wade’s hand wrapped around his wrist.

Peter waves a little unsurely at the woman as he’s being absconded and she shakes her wooden spoon at the pair, eyes narrowed in distaste.

“Marta may make the best tacos in town, but she tends to get violent when I break things,” Wade’s saying cheerily, still yanking Peter down the sidewalk at a rapid pace. “Don’t look behind you; her expression will haunt your nightmares.”

Peter then dissolves into laughter because Deadpool, the villain-esque mercenary (or would that be anti-hero?) actually fears a tiny but fierce grandma armed with only a wooden spoon.

“BTW, you’re pretty cute yourself,” Wade’s saying and Peter feels his laughter catch in his throat, blinking in surprise at the back of the masked man.

“Thanks,” Peter answers, throat desert dry.

Then they’re piling into a taxi with a young guy that Wade seems to be familiar with and they’re off into an industrial part of town that Peter’s only visited in his Spider-Man suit.

“Is this the part where you chloroform me and sell my kidneys on the black market?” Peter mumbles despite relaxing because he’s now just realising that he is bone tired and, even if Wade says yes, Peter’s not sure if he can summon the energy to defend himself.

A gloved finger boops Peter on the nose (punctuated by Wade _actually_ _saying_ “boop!”) and he opens his eyes in surprise, realising that he’d closed them.

“Your kidneys be all kinds of wrecked right now,” Wade’s saying sassily, manhandling a squawking Peter so that the smaller man is laying across the back seat with his back pressed against Wade’s chest and head tucked into a muscled shoulder, legs tangled and pressed against the door. “So I’m going to have to sober you up and _then_ we’ll talk black market. Young white boy bones make great potion ingredients, I’ve been told.”

Peter snorts and plans on shitting on that idea very loudly but then the lull of the car jostling him and the warmth under his head soothes him and his eyes close and everything else is lost as he falls into sleep.

* * *

Peter wakes up with his face pressed firmly into a pillow, feeling like he’s swallowed a canister of cotton balls and an oppressive pressure in his hips demanding his attention. It takes Peter about thirty seconds to realise that his bladder is warning him that if he doesn’t move _right now_ , it will unleash untold horrors onto the mattress. So he stumbles out of the bed, a little confused as to why he feels so comfortable and warm, and doesn’t bother opening his eyes as he fears the light will burn his sensitive pupils in an dramatic reproduction of the Nazi melt-scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark. He walks in the general direction of his bathroom and then lets out a surprised _meep_ when he runs face first into a wall. A very painful concrete wall.

“The _fuck_?” Peter asks the wall, offended, blinking blearily around his squished nose and watering eyes and trying to comprehend at what point the door to his bathroom was backfilled with concrete.

A peel of laughter surprises Peter, causing him to jump in shock before whipping around and griping the wall behind him, ready to scurry up it backwards like some creepy-ass spider creature from a horror movie.

To Peter’s mortification, Dead- _Fucking_ -Pool is laying in the bed he’d _just emerged from,_ looking extremely comfortable as he stretched feline-like.

Peter’s overheating brain short-circuits.

A naked Deadpool.

_Alright, not naked, but very,_ very _undressed,_ Peter’s mind stresses as he takes in miles of exposed flesh and a silken pair of black boxers speckled with little cartoon depictions of Spider-Man.

_“You can call me Wade,”_ a memory whispers in Peter’s mind and he’s blushing so deeply in that moment that Peter’s sure a thermal imaging camera would break should it try to capture the sheer amount of heat radiating off Peter’s exposed flesh.

_I’m in boxers. Just boxers,_ Peter thinks frantically to himself, fingers digging even deeper into the concrete wall.

“I need to pee,” bursts out of Peter’s mouth and Peter decides that it’s more important he fully ignore the entire situation until he has emptied his bladder. _Then_ he can have a complete and utter mental breakdown. Besides, Deadpool – _Wade_ – most likely has a large enough window in his bathroom to make an elaborate escape.

“Twenty feet to your left, sugar,” Deadpool says casually, one hand propped behind his head, biceps bulging at the position, eyes hooded in a terrifyingly sultry expression. _Hnignh_ , Peter’s brain supplies helpfully.

Peter focuses on keeping his jaw from dropping at the stunning blue of Wade’s eyes (and the total shock of seeing the man without the mask) and he scurries in the direction of the bathroom.

Peter slams the door behind him and launches to the toilet, too overwhelmed to stand and instead sitting as he relieves himself. This position allows him to bury his face in his hands, elbows on his knees, and Peter relives the few memories he has of the night before. Weasel, drinking, conversation, more drinking, bar fight, _more_ drinking, gold card, Deadpool, tacos, tiny angry Mexican grandma (??), and taxi. Climbing into the taxi and teasing threats of powdering his bones to sell on the black market is the last thing Peter remembers.

Peter wonders how much it would cost to buy a one-way plane ticket to Buenos Aires. Probably more than his entire monthly salary. Peter could put it on his credit card. But he’s told Wade his name, so if the man decides to hunt him down, leaving a credit trail would be a bad idea. Maybe Peter can work a couple jobs for cash?

Peter momentarily pushes away those thoughts to take stock of his body and realises that he hasn’t gone and messed up by sleeping with Deadpool while blackout drunk, which really would have been the cherry on top of Peter’s Most Mortifying Night. Peter’s certainly enjoyed his own string of drunken one-night stands in the past but this feels nothing like the morning afters that he’s experienced. Peter’s actually feeling semi-refreshed despite a hangover headache rattling around in his head (and thank you, radioactive spider, for inhuman healing powers). And Peter, oddly enough, trusts that Wade wouldn’t have touched him without his permission. For someone who flirts harder than a pharmaceutical rep trying to offload a batch of expiring antidepressants, Deadpool has historically displayed oddly strict boundaries when it comes to consent.  

Peter then takes a deep breath, flushes the toilet and washes his hands, only to startle at a knock on the bathroom door.

“Sorry, hunny bunny,” a deep voice is rumbling through the wood, “But daddy’s gotta leak too.”

Peter feels that white-hot blush make a very unwelcome comeback.

Peter yanks open the bathroom door and comes face first with a bare chiselled chest decorated with a rather terrifying amount of shiny scars. The white-hot flush on his cheeks turns even hotter, like the blue base of a flame.

Peter wonders if his face is literally blue. He wouldn’t be surprised.

Large hands gently pull him out of the doorway of the bathroom and then the door is closed, locking Peter out in the spacious apartment.

Peter’s a naturally curious being and while he knows that he should be yanking on his clothing and following through with at least one of the seven escape plans he’s considered in the last ten minutes, he can’t help but nosy around the flat as the sound of a shower running in the bathroom provides him a few moments of privacy.

Deadpool’s apartment is not at all how Peter imagined it would be but somehow it suits “Wade”. It’s massive, for one, and looks to be a converted warehouse space like the ones he sees in movies. The high ceilings feature pipes and I-beams and one forty-foot wall is lined with massive industrial window panes, letting in an amazing amount of crisp sunlight. Judging by the angle of the sun, Peter would guess that it’s late afternoon.

The brightness of the apartment stuns Peter and he feels himself relax at the feel of light touching his skin. Peter’s apartment is a tiny shoebox in Harlem that he bought with the remaining proceeds from selling Aunt May’s house (after settling her medical bills, he was amazed he could afford anything). Its only windows face the next door building and there’s an airgap of one foot before his view becomes a brick wall. Luckily, there’s no window facing his apartment from the building next door, a small mercy, but Peter gets no natural sunlight in his flat and he’s way too poor to run the lights all the time, so he has to make due largely in the dark.

Unlike his own apartment, which features exactly one mattress, a fridge, and a desk as its only furnishings, Deadpool’s house is filled with all kinds of wildly expensive-looking minimalist furniture. It’s cluttered in a lived-in way but stylish in its industrial design. Tones of copper, brick red and earthy greens startle Peter, who expected the space to be filled with moth chewed couches and garbage, like a massive rat’s nest.

There’s even a large, dark green potted plant in the corner of the room and Peter wonders who the hell waters the thing when Deadpool’s off on jobs.

“Sweet digs,” Peter mumbles to himself.

“Nice, innit?” Deadpool is saying in a British accent and Peter spins around, blinking owlishly at the sight of the man standing in the doorway of the bathroom, steam spilling out around his frame and a small towel struggling to protect his modesty.

Deadpool – _Wade, dammit –_ tosses Peter a spare towel. “Seriously, babe, I’m not usually one to body shame, like, _ever_. But right now you’re starting to ripen a bit and there’s a worryingly strong scent of whiskey coming off your skin, so you’re welcome to shower. In fact, I insist. I washed your clothes last night and they’ll be dry in about ten.”

Peter’s left feeling a bit miserable upon realising he _reeks_ as Wade winks then slinks back to his bedroom. He’s annoyed with himself when he blushes again at the sight of a clean pair of boxers rolled up in the towel and instead focuses on showering.

Peter actually hates himself when he blushes even darker ( _face, stop trying to hold all my blood at once_ , he berates himself) at the sight of his clothing folded on the closed toilet seat after stepping out of the shower. The sneaky mercenary hadn’t made a sound when he dropped them off. By the time Peter stumbles out of the bathroom, zipping up his ‘going-out’ skinny jeans and tugging on his flannel shirt over a t-shirt, he feels somewhat human again and lets his nose follow the scent of bacon.  

Wade is in jeans and a long sleeve shirt under a surprisingly frilly apron ( _thank god it’s not just the apron,_ Peter thinks, mostly for the sake of his blood pressure) and cooking up a storm in the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” Peter says to himself in awe. Because there is orange juice, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, blueberry pancakes, coffee and a bottle proudly claiming _100% Pure Canadian Maple Syrup!_

Peter hasn’t seen a homecooked meal like this in nearly three years. He feels his eyes prickle suspiciously.

“Mhm, mmm!” Wade is humming, pleased, as he flipped a pancake in a skillet with a flick of his wrist. “Momma knows how to _provide_. And you need some fattening up, baby boy. Dig in!” At this, Wade cocks his head to wink at Peter.

Peter promptly ignores all social etiquette and inhales as much food as he can as quickly as he can, because he’s just realised that this must be some absurdly elaborate dream or prank because there is no way that a totally sloshed Peter Parker was actually taken home by the infamously insane Deadpool, then wasn’t assaulted or harassed as he slept in the mercenary’s ridiculously comfortable bed, and then was cooked a massive carb-loaded breakfast after a blissfully warm shower that didn’t run out of hot water within five minutes.

_As if_ , Peter snorts mentally.

It’s clearly all made up and Peter knows that his mind must have had a total mental breakdown at Sister Margaret’s and he’s probably in a coma in a hospital somewhere with tubes in his nose or, even worse, swaddled in a straightjacket as he rocks himself in a white padded room. But it’s been _so long_ since someone has taken care of him and, fabricated or not, Peter plans on enjoying this weirdly fluffy feeling wrapping around his shoulders like a blanket for as long as he can.

Wade finishes cooking the last of the pancakes and curls around the kitchen island to sit on a barstool next to Peter, feet resting on the lowest rung of the stool and fork digging into his own plate at a much more leisurely pace than Peter’s frantic shovelling.

“Sorry, ‘m nasty,” Peter mumbles through food but he doesn’t dare stop eating because the food is incredible (another nail in the coffin that this is a fantasy). Peter looks at Wade through the corner of his eye and notices the man is wearing a distinctly pleased expression.

“All I see are compliments to the chef,” Wade quips and Peter feels immensely grateful that he’s not being teased ‘cause he’s feeling all kinds of raw at the moment.

As Wade finishes his food, Peter cleans the kitchen in thanks for the meal and delights himself by loading the dishwasher because, even when he lived with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, the idea of using a dishwasher is obscenely decadent. Peter then allows himself to be pulled over to a couch facing a massive flat screen TV and manhandled into laying on his right, the entire back of his frame pressing into Wade’s warm body. They’re watching some ridiculous show (Peter can’t believe Jerry Springer is still airing on TV) before Peter’s mind catches up with the situation.

“What is going on?” Peter asks slowly, turning his head over his left shoulder to look up at Wade’s bare face.

Wade’s lips pull into a smirk, as if he had been waiting for Peter to break down and ask, and electric blue eyes flicker down. Wade has an elbow propped on the couch and his jaw in resting in his hand, looking for all intents and purposes like a relaxed jungle cat.

“Nothin’, Petey,” Wade answers sweetly, but his innocent tone is spoiled by the glint in his eye.

“Nothing?” Peter askes in disbelief, realising with a sudden jolt that his face is inches away from Wade’s. “This feels like an appropriate moment to say, _Why grandma, what large teeth you have_.”

“ _All the better to eat you with_ ,” Wade answers in that deep, rumbling voice that has Peter feeling like a wet noodle. “I guess you just seem really familiar to me. Have we met?” Wade’s asking chirpily.

“Well, I _am_ Spider-Man,” Peter answers without thinking because, really, this is just a fantasy and he’ll wake up soon, right? Might as well play it out. Peter blinks in surprise when he feels Wade’s body stiffen against his back. “That is where you were going with that, right?” Peter asks, suddenly doubting himself and wondering if he’s just fucked up.

A breathy laugh puffs across Peter’s face and he feels momentarily dazed.

“Actually, yeah,” Wade says softly, still blinking in shock. “But I didn’t think you’d give it up so quickly. I thought I had another week tops to tease you.”

“Eh,” Peter shrugs, turning back to the reality TV show but nestling closer to the warm frame behind him. “Not like it matters anyway.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say because Wade is suddenly stiffer than the concrete wall Peter walked into that morning.

“What makes you say that?” Wade asks in a strained voice and Peter looks back to him, but the larger man’s eyes are glued firmly to the TV.

“Well clearly this is some bizarre dream of mine, yeah?” Peter asks, huffing a laugh. “’Cause there’s no way this is real. Peter Parker doesn’t get hot mercenaries to wash his clothes and cook him a fantastic breakfast after rescuing him from a bar. I’m assuming the reality is that I’m performing a wee stint in the psych ward.”

The body against Peter’s relaxes again minutely, but there’s still thrumming tension radiating from Wade’s frame.

“That’s my line, sugar,” Wade answers softy, frowning down at Peter as he finally turns his eyes away from the TV. “’Sides, I can guarantee this is real. If you’d let me pinch your butt for once, I could prove it.”

Peter stares at Wade for a moment in dumb shock. His mind reels momentarily before he tenses so quickly that a cramp takes over his calf.

“You’re shitting me,” Peter states.

“Seriously, I keep trying to freak you out and yet here you are, willingly pressing that adorable bubble butt against me and upping the ante. So, no. I’m not shitting you. But are you shitting me? Very real possibility,” Wade’s retorting.

But Peter’s not listening because he’s intimately aware of those lips hovering over his own.

It hits Peter like a train that this, right here, is what he needs. What he _wants_. Peter wants Wade. And he doesn’t even know the man’s last name.

There have been moments in the last two years that suddenly make sense to Peter, like the click of a gear sliding into place. Deadpool had never quite been the psycho he was warned about when alone with the merc. Deadpool is clever and cheeky and makes tons of weird references that Peter actually _gets_ without trying to because Wade and Peter just naturally have a similar sense of humour and, in the rare times he was in New York for longer than three days, Deadpool would spend as much of that time around Peter as possible. And Peter would _let him_ , meeting him for hot dogs at midnight and occasionally swinging the man around the city, feeling his large frame wrapped around his back – Holy shit, Deadpool’s been courting Spider-Man for two years and Peter is only just realising this now. _Peter Parker, you_ dense _motherfucker_ , he thinks dazedly.

“Double dog dare you to kiss me,” Peter challenges, making a decision through the haze of epiphanies. And, for once, he’s not embarrassed by the words coming out of his mouth because every fibre of Peter’s being is screaming _oh my god_ _doooo iiittt!_

Wade is scowling in one moment and in the next Peter finds himself being pushed into the large couch and smothered in two hundred plus pounds of pure muscle. Wade had moved so fast that Peter can only reel in shock, blinking in surprise as he’s flat on his back and face framed by forearms resting on either side of his head and an extremely threatening mercenary’s face hovering over his own.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, Petey-pie,” Deadpool is saying in that dangerous sing-song tune, because this _is_ Deadpool, not just considerate albeit snarky Wade, and yet Deadpool’s _still_ giving Peter an out. He’s a walking tsunami warning and whip-smart and rubs Peter the wrong way and, for fuck’s sake, Peter’s just realising _now_ that he’s been mooning over this asshole for about two years and this is really just a long time coming considering how many times Peter has let Deadpool pull his proverbial pigtails and pulled Deadpool’s right back.

“Triple dog dare,” Peter hears himself say in a goading tone. “Unless you’re chick – ”

Peter lets out a long, victorious moan as Wade’s mouth is pressed against his and there’s a tongue running against the roof of his mouth and Peter’s eyes are crossing behind closed lids. Like Deadpool, the kiss is dirty and vicious and everything Peter wants. Peter’s ankles are locking around Wade’s waist without his permission and he’s arching into that ridiculously hard frame, fingers lacing around Wade’s neck and pulling hard.

Wade quickly pushes Peter down with a splayed hand against Peter’s chest and releasing a colourful line of expletives in a breathy prayer against Peter’s lips. Peter quickly chases Wade’s mouth because he’d be _damned_ if Wade decides to stop now.

“Just,” Wade’s panting against his mouth, body strung tighter than a drawn bow and voice pitched slightly higher than normal. “A minute, Petey.”

“No minutes, Wade,” Peter’s responding, yanking that neck and pressing nipping bites on Wade’s coarse jaw, delighting in the small noises of pleasure emitting from Wade’s mouth.

“ _Fuckity fuck,_ ” Wade whispers reverently and Peter takes the moment to slip his tongue between the man’s parted lips. “Please say my name again, baby boy.”

Peter smiles softly into the kiss at Wade’s pained tone, feeling fresh heat jolt down his spine. Peter trailed his lips across Wade’s face, gently biting Wade’s earlobe before whispering in a needy voice that he knew he was going to blush over tomorrow, “ _Wade.”_

In a flash of movement, Peter felt Wade’s weight disappear and he nearly keened in frustration before being yanked up by his wrists and pushed towards the bedroom.

“Go, go, go, _go_ ,” Wade is chanting, nearly picking up Peter in his haste.

Peter grinned as he was bodily shoved through the doorframe and stumbled backwards onto the bed, Wade following like a shadow and pressing the smaller man into the mattresses with lips and teeth and scratching nails.

* * *

Later, as Peter’s head rests in the dip of Wade’s shoulder and relishing the feel of a calloused hand gently running through his hair, Peter realises with a start that he’s not sure how the _fuck_ Weasel knew before Peter did. But he had to; the whole situation stinks of the bartender’s meddling hands and, with a groan, Peter realised he was going to have to buy Weasel the _best_ birthday gift this year.

**Author's Note:**

> Hnignh, the author’s brain supplies helpfully.
> 
> Quick Reader’s Poll:  
> 1.) Does Wade buy a new plant after long missions or does he have a neighbour water it while he’s away?  
> 2.) Should Peter buy Weasel a bedazzler to secretly ruin all of Deadpool’s suits or barstools made out of adamantium?  
> 3.) Would Wade be deeply disturbed by Peter crawling up a wall backwards like a horror-movie demon or be oddly turned on by the sudden influx of sexual position potential? (Jk we all know the answer to that one)  
> 4.) How long did Wade ogle Peter’s ass in the shower before hitting himself and making an escape?  
> 5.) At what point did Wade realise that Peter is Spiderman and think, ‘Weasel, you beautiful meddling sonuvabitch’? Or, alternatively, did he take one look at dat ass in that bar and think, ‘Spidey!!!’? 
> 
> Also, side thought, I haven’t seen an AU in which Peter is Little Red Riding Hood and Wade is the Wolf and if it has been written please comment with a link (for science). If not, I would like to take this time to make an appeal to the AO3 community because I really need this in my life.


End file.
